Baker Street Tales
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: A series of prompt fills, some gen, some HolmesWatson slash. Various ratings.
1. Tàladh Chriosd

Title: Tàladh Chriosd

Prompt: _Watson sings Holmes to sleep._

0o0o

It is very late at night and Holmes' fingers tap in an unwieldy staccato against his thigh, radiating nervousness. Watson watches with concern as his lips move in a silent, trembling stream of nonsense words as he lies on the bed, curled up onto himself. Holmes' wide eyes are glazed with exhaustion, but he can't sleep, no matter how much he desires to.

The case has been too much, as some of their more involved cases usually are. Coupled with Holmes' tendency toward starvation and use of narcotics to tide himself over, he's brought himself to near wreckage once again.

Again. Watson wants to be cynical and uncaring, to let Holmes reap what he's sown, but he can't. It's not in his nature and besides, is there a better time to slide in beside Holmes and pull him into his arms, unresisting? To smooth down his wild hair, to pet him and comfort and listen to his stuttering heart-rate slow into something reasonable?

If only he could get him to sleep.

Watson thinks about the times he's been overtired, those nights in the trenches when his nerves were near past the point of breaking. The only thing that helped then was a memory of a lullaby, sung in the old tongue, perhaps by a nurse ... he can't exactly remember. But he remembers the words and the tune clearly enough.

Maybe it could work again.

With some embarrassment, Watson clears his throat and hesitantly sings. He knows his voice isn't the best but that's not the point of a lullaby, its beauty lies in its purpose, not its execution. The words stick on his tongue at first, then come more easily as he goes along.

_Mo ghaol, mo ghràdh, is m'fheudail thu  
__M' ionntas ùr is m' èibhneas thu  
__Mo mhacan àlainn ceutach thu  
__Chan fhiù mi fhèin bhith 'd dhàil"_

He can feel Holmes shift a little with surprise before settling in and losing himself to the song. His twitching ceases, his breathing slows and finally, his wound-up body lets go, relaxing completely into Watson's embrace.

The lullaby ends. Holmes is practically boneless in his arms, very close to sleep. "Beautiful," he murmurs. "What do the words mean?"

"No idea," Watson lies. "Go to sleep, Holmes."

"Yes," he whispers before drifting off.

Watson continues to hold him and with a final check to make sure he's asleep, begins the song again, this time in English.

_"My love, my dear, my treasure are you  
____My new treasure and my joy are you  
______My beautiful fair one are you  
________I am unworthy to be near you_

_________The sheep in the field sleep and sigh  
__Safe within my arms you lie  
__Blessed am I to hold you near  
__And feel your beating heart"_

Perhaps it's for the best that he never quite sees a silent and secret grin curl over Holmes' lips.

o0o0o

end


	2. The Left Hand Path

Title: The Left Hand Path  
Genre: AU, Slash  
Rating: R (sex, some violence)  
Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
Summary: For Kinkmeme fill: _Holmes knows Blackwood isn't using real black magic for his plans, because Holmes knows black magic._

o0o

Blackwood stares at them, exuding preternatural calm and Holmes has to admit, the man isn't a bad actor.

He's not a magician, no, but he pretends to be one well enough.

His temple members wait, staring at the intruders with trepidation and somewhat undisguised glee. They honestly believe in Blackwood, in his power and control over the dark forces that surround them. They think Holmes is going to meet the same fate as the American ambassador -- a burning, screaming fate.

They are wrong.

Holmes knows Blackwood isn't a magician. He knows this not because he's the great detective but because he knows magic and its reality; how it smells, how it twists the air around the practitioner, how his skin prickles when it's drawn from the earth, the sky and the fire.

Sherlock Holmes knows because he has practiced magic since he was old enough to hold The Knife.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have come," Blackwood says. Stalling, as he's still trying to figure out a way to be rid of them in an appropriately dramatic manner. "You will regret it."

Watson huffs quietly at this. Impatient as ever and Holmes suppresses a grin. "I don't think we had a choice. You've been a bit misleading to these fine gentlemen ..." Sarcasm colors his voice at the last two words. "So I thought I'd show them how it's truly done."

Blackwood raises an eyebrow. He's having trouble keeping the confusion from his features and his followers grow restless. Coward makes a face, although it's obvious he still believes. "Our Lord Blackwood is not a man to be trifled with. But you'll find that out."

Beside him, Watson bristles. Holmes decides they've waited long enough. With a deep inhale, he centers himself, closing off the parts of his mind he no longer needs, opening other doors deep within. His breathing slows, the room narrows and Watson is watching him intently, waiting.

He uses one of the old languages - not, never, The Oldest - and it will be good enough. "_Maligne spiritus, ut confestim allata et circulo discedas._"

His voice hollows and Watson slowly draws the blade from his cane. He reaches for Holmes' right hand, but Holmes shakes his head at him. "The left one, beloved," he whispers, ignoring how Watson's face pales.

But he obeys, drawing the sword over Holmes' left palm, a line of blood welling across the skin. The crimson liquid drips onto the floor and Holmes' sways on his feet as the darkness is summoned. The blood flickers into a fast-spreading flame, growing higher and Blackwood leaps to his feet in terror.

The temple members look around in confusion as every door in the room slams shut. This fire has no smoke, it is nothing but searing heat that travels unnaturally over the floor, around the walls in deadly circles.

Watson stands next to Holmes, silent and very calm, the handle of the sword pressed to his heart. He closes his eyes as Holmes whispers his furious litany, damning all of them to a merciless death. Coward is screaming as he burns alive, as are the others, who are climbing the walls and throwing themselves out of shattered windows, one after the other.

Blackwood is last. His mouth hangs open, in awe and horror, his all-too-human visage understanding the true nature of his pretensions far too late. The flames lick at the bottom of his long coat and he stands still in shock, as Holmes meets his gaze one last time.

"_This_ is the Left Hand Path," Holmes says calmly. "Sorrow unto he who tries - and fails - to follow its road."

These are the last words Lord Blackwood hears.

o0o

He and Watson slip away, first from the building, then from London all together.

Watson is silent for most of the trip to the coast. Holmes knows he disapproves of what he's done, if only for the possible spiritual repercussions. It's true that the other path isn't traveled lightly, but he has an absolution in mind, if Watson will cooperate.

As it turns out, Watson's very willing to be laid upon one of the stone altars of Cornwall beneath a full moon, naked and lovingly tied there, a beautiful, symbolic sacrifice.

Silently, Holmes paints his pale skin with red ochre and fresh soot from a nearby hearth. He draws over Watson's body in the ancient way; covering him with handprints and lions, strong bulls and wild horses. Once that's done, Holmes climbs upon him and makes love to him atop the stone, whispering to the night, asking Epona for forgiveness.

Sweat blurs the pictures, covering them both in red and black and Watson gasps as Holmes' enters him, the circle complete. He thrusts slowly, looking into Watson's sky blue eyes, calling him _beloved_ and _my blessing_. He is his lover and helpmate and has been through many lives - Holmes has seen this much in the divining waters. Holmes used to wonder if the Mother made a mistake, putting him into a man's body this time around, but he doesn't question Her wisdom any longer.

It's irrelevant in the end. All that matters is that they are together in this life and Holmes laughs softly as Watson arches impatiently beneath him, straining against the bonds, gasping and begging for completion. Holmes buries his face into the crook of Watson's neck and listens to their bodies slap wetly against the stone, shuddering once ... twice ... then falling to stillness.

"I think I'm forgiven," Holmes whispers later, kissing Watson's sweat-slippery forehead.

"That's good," he murmurs, just a little sarcastically, which is exactly the way Holmes loves him. "Now how about letting me get my arse off this rock?"

"I think I left the knife back at the inn," Holmes lies and Watson's answering smile is magical in and of itself.

o0o

end

_Comments are always welcome._


End file.
